


Yea, Though I Walk

by LeilaSecretSmith



Series: A Psalm of Grief and Anguish [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batfam Feels, Brother Feels, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jason my son, Please he's so sad, Someone give Jason more hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 22:31:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8640664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeilaSecretSmith/pseuds/LeilaSecretSmith
Summary: Jason stands between life and death--that is to say, he stands on a familiar porch, faced for the second time with one final decision. This time, all he wants is to walk down the path and out the gates. Perhaps his family can convince him to wait just a little bit longer to leave.





	

              There was a door in front of him.

              It wasn’t a strange or unfamiliar door, wasn’t a common door or a foreboding door. It was a huge, arched double-door, made of solid, dark-stained wood. The brass of the handles and knockers was worn and discolored with age and use. Intricate carvings marched up the borders and center, telling a familiar history in delicate whorls and darkened grooves.

              Except, the door shouldn’t have been telling _any_ history, and certainly not that of the Caped Crusader and his Fallen Squire; it should have been relatively simple, a good example of Gothic architecture, but nothing more. And yet, it _was_ more. Jason knew he should have been confused by this.

              He wasn’t.

* * *

 

              _Stay with me, Jason! Keep your eyes open!_

* * *

 

              The sole of his boot scuffed softly over smooth marble as he turned away from the door and looked out over the porch and down that familiar (hated) front path. The gravel road was impeccable—as always—and he could smell the familiar perfume of freshly-cut grass. The only sound to be heard was the gentle, rhythmic rasp of his own breath.

              It was utterly serene in a way that Wayne Manor never had been. The tense ache that had gnawed hungrily at his insides ever since his resurrection eased away entirely, leaving him with an odd, empty lightness in his chest. An indescribable, ephemeral sensation tugged at him as he stared into the gentle sunlight, like a parent reaching down and gently taking a child’s hand to lead them.

              He knew in his heart that he was being called away, down the path.

              “Jason,” a woman said. He blinked, and suddenly a well-dressed couple was standing at the foot of the porch stairs, both looking up at him sadly. The man had dark hair, a bushy moustache, and familiar blue eyes; the woman had curly brown hair, soft amber eyes, and a string of pearls that draped elegantly down to the hollow of her throat.

He’d never met them, never even heard much about them; he’d only seen them through paintings and sepia-tone pictures, but Jason would have recognized them anywhere. And though he felt he had no right, the titles he had always longed to give them slipped past his traitorous lips.

“Grandma,” he whispered, working past the lump in his throat, “Grandpa.”

Thomas and Martha Wayne both smiled sadly at him.

* * *

 

_I can’t stop the bleeding! He’s going into shock!_

* * *

 

 “It’s time to go, son,” Thomas Wayne said gently. Jason’s Lazarus-green eyes prickled hotly as he looked into his adopted grandfather’s soft, loving blue eyes. And yet, it was a different set of blue eyes that he so desperately wished would look at him with such warmth and compassion.

“Let’s go, Jason,” Martha Wayne coaxed, holding a gloved hand out for him to take, as if he were a small child. “They’re all waiting for you, sweetheart.”

Something like relieved joy swept through him. Jason took a step forward, an uncharacteristically shy, uncertain smile crossing his face even as hot tears trailed down his cheeks.

* * *

 

_Blood pressure at sixty-three over seventy! We’re losing him!_

* * *

 

              Behind him, the door to the manor opened, and distinctive rubber treads squeaked against the stone.

“Not a step further, Todd.”

Jason jolted to a stop, glancing over his shoulder in surprise. Of all the things he expected to hear, the formal intonation of Damian Wayne’s voice was the last. And yet, there the little demon brat was, watching him coolly from behind the lenses of his green domino mask.

“Come back inside. Now,” the child commanded, tilting his head just slightly toward the inside of the manor. There was no question, no option to refuse in his tone. “Father will be… disappointed if you leave us.”

Strangely, Jason wasn’t angry at Damian, even with the pipsqueak’s heavy-handed, arrogant commands. In fact, he felt quite peaceful toward his almost-brother; what was there to be mad about here? So he snorted in amusement at Damian’s antics and smiled crookedly, offering a casual salute in farewell as he turned back toward their grandparents.

* * *

 

_Faster, Bruce!_

* * *

 

A different, heavier set of feet stepped lightly through the door; the soft swishing of a cape filled the silence.

“Jason, please,” Tim said, and despite himself, Jason stopped again and looked back. Tim stepped past Damian—who was now scowling at Jason’s back—and reached up to push his cowl off; his sad blue eyes glistened wetly, even in the shadow of the porch. “Not like this,” the Red Robin whispered beseechingly. “Not now. Don’t make him—don’t make us do this again. Not so soon. Please, Jay. Come inside.” He held out a hand, just like Martha Wayne, but Jason shook his head. A fresh wave of tears trailed down his cheeks, and his breath hitched.

“I can’t, Timmy,” he rasped, his deep, normally steady voice wavering. “Don’t you see? I’m so tired. I have to go. Besides, he’ll—you’ll be fine. Everyone was the first time.”

Tim looked devastated at the refusal. Jason smiled a little bit, though it wasn’t the same dismissive smile he had given Damian. “I have to go now, Timmy,” he said, turning back to his adopted grandparent, who were still waiting patiently for him.

* * *

 

_Bruce, he’s not breathing!_

* * *

 

A third set of feet exited the manor, stepping with acrobatic-lightness to stand beside his brothers. This time, Jason didn’t wait for him to speak before he paused.

Dick, maskless, approached him with deliberate steps, pausing when he was close enough to touch. “Little Wing,” the acrobat said, deliberately not reaching out to touch his little brother. “You’re wrong. We weren’t fine the first time, none of us. And despite everything that’s happened, we’ll be worse off this time, B especially.”

Jason was shaking his head even before Dick had stopped speaking. “Not true, Dickie-bird, and you know it,” he replied, more tired than angry. What was there to be angry about? It was almost over anyways. “He misses his son, and that’s not me, not anymore. He’ll be mourning a shell, a twisted mirror image, nothing more.” Jason’s laugh was sad, with just a touch of the bitterness that he couldn’t escape, not even here. “’Through a mirror darkly’, and all that,” he quoted.

“Jay, please,” Dick whispered, his expression contorting with grief. “If not for B, then for us.” The acrobat reached out, his hand hovering just over Jason’s cheek, as if he was afraid a touch would drive him further away. “Please, Little Wing, I love you too.”

“Dick—” Jason’s voice broke, and he shook his head, averting his eyes from his older brother’s desperate, heartbroken expression. “Dick, I—I’m just so tired. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t disappoint you anymore. Please, just—just let me rest? I wasn’t supposed to come back anyways, and it’s—just…” he trailed off with another violent shake of his head.

“I just want to rest.” He turned sharply back toward the stairs, his steps stiff but certain.

It was time to go.

* * *

 

_Dick, the defibrillator, NOW!_

* * *

 

He didn’t stop—he _refused_ to stop—as a fourth person stepped out, the stately click of his heels so distinctive that Jason couldn’t quite hold back a sob.

“Master Jason, I do believe you should come inside,” Alfred said, his crisp voice unusually soft.

Jason hovered at the top step and closed his eyes, fists clenched at his side. He didn’t turn around. He _couldn’t_ turn around. But he also couldn’t convince himself to take that last step. Alfred’s clicking steps drew closer as Jason wavered. His breath came in short, aborted pants. The butler’s hand landed on his shoulder and, gently but inexorably, he was turned around.

“Please, Master Jason,” Alfred murmured, holding both of his former charge’s shoulders. Jason refused to open his eyes, refused to raise his head. “Come inside. I have no wish to bury my grandson a second time.”

“ _I can’t,_ ” Jason sobbed, digging his nails into his palms. “I _can’t,_ Alfie. I’m just so fucking tired.” Alfred’s hand smoothed over the top of his head as he cried. He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, but the flow of tears wouldn’t stop. “Please, just let me _go._ I can’t _do_ this anymore!”

* * *

 

_Clear!_

* * *

 

Alfred released him and stepped away as a fifth man exited the manor, the thud of each heavy footfall seeming to reverberate into Jason’s very bones. His breath caught in his throat; his heart felt like it was shattering inside his chest.

“Jason.” Jason shook his head in denial as broad, gloved hands reached out to cradle his face, holding him still.

“No,” he denied, his voice small and hoarse. He knew, he _fucking knew_ that if he looked up, it was all over. But he was just so _tired._ Why couldn’t they just let him rest?

“Son,” Bruce whispered, his thumbs resting over Jason’s hands, which still—like a five-year-old trying to hide—covered his face. “Look at me.”

“Dad, I can’t do this,” Jason whispered, more traitorous tears trailing down his forearms. “I can’t—I can’t keep _disappointing you._ I can’t _be_ what you want me to be! Don’t you see? I’m not your son anymore.” He sobbed, his entire body convulsing, but didn’t move his hands. “I just want to rest, _please,”_ he begged. “Just let me _go._ ”

* * *

 

_Clear!_

* * *

 

“No, Jay,” Bruce whispered, his voice full of emotion. His hands moved from Jason’s face to—uncharacteristically—pull his adopted son into a firm hug. “No, son,” he repeated, his voice rumbling through the armored chestplate and into Jason’s ear. “We have our differences, and I know that I’ve failed you so many times” —his voice cracked at the admission— “but you’ve _never_ stopped being my son, Jay. I know I don’t say it enough, I know I don’t act like it, but I _love you_ , Jason. I loved you before, and I love you now, son.” Jason froze, something he couldn’t quite identify sweeping through him like an electric shock. Bruce continued, “so please, _please_ look at me.”

* * *

 

_Again! CLEAR!_

* * *

 

Jason shook, feeling every bit the scared preteen caught jacking the Batmobile’s tires as he slowly looked up. Bruce, _dad,_ looked down at him with sad, soft blue eyes. Jason forgot how to breathe as he stared up, frozen. _He still loves you,_ something deep inside of him, something long locked away, whispered. And Jason was right: his resolve did crumble, and that ephemeral tugging sensation faded away entirely. How could he leave if he was wrong? How could he leave if his dad _still loved him?_

“Come inside, Jay,” Bruce begged, his arms still locked firmly, comfortingly, around his adopted son. And it was _dad,_ who _still loved him,_ that was asking.

So Jason did.

* * *

 

_I’ve got a heartbeat!_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Moment Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11348790) by [Trenchcoat Hunter (Reedt)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reedt/pseuds/Trenchcoat%20Hunter)




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